


Feel the bond

by Kay245



Series: Heat of wolves, ruts of dragons [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dark!Jon, F/M, Jon is manipulating Daenerys, badass!sansa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-02-04 00:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12759237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kay245/pseuds/Kay245
Summary: Sequel to Hear the calling, After the battle of dawn, Jon returns to Winterfell and to Sansa, as a cousin rather than a brother. However, a lot has happened since his departure from Winterfell. With him having bended the knee and bedded the Dragon Queen, can he lay claim to his omega? And most importantly, will Sansa let him?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my previous work, Hear the Calling and I strongly recommend reading it first to understand what happens in this story.
> 
> This sequel will focus on what happens after season 7 (as after Hear the calling, the story follows relatively closely canon with minor adjustments).  
> Yes, boatsex happened and at the beginning Jon and Daenerys have a sexual relationship. But the endgame is Jonsa and the Jonerys is much more a plot device than anything else. There is a lot of undercover Jon in this (even if in the story, it didn't start that way).
> 
> I hope that you like this follow up.

_A few weeks earlier..._

 

Jon took a gulp of liquor. Anything to help him fight against the bitter cold, colder even than what he already experienced behind the Wall. Despite being protected by the seasoned heavy fabric of his tent, despite the many stoves and bonfires around the camp and inside tents, the bite of the freezing wind didn’t relent. As if the Night King could command to the elements to torment them even during the lulls between battles. Frowning, he looked to Davos, ever the dutiful and loyal steward, as he recounted the news brought by ravens. The promises of new wagons of food and warm blankets, the new allies that pledged themselves to the cause. He frowned because as much as dutiful and loyal Davos was, the man’s current reserve told him what the next set of news was about.

“So what are the news of Winterfell?” he asked airily.

There, he thought cruelly, there was the slight tick at Davos’ mouth. The tick he’d learnt to decipher as well as the stony face of Catelyn Stark when he was younger. No matter the person, no matter his age, it seemed that disapproval would always follow him.

“They are building more glass gardens and grain has no trouble being brought in from the South.” started Lord Davos.

“Yes, yes. All that is expected. After all,no one should doubt the skills of the Lady of Winterfell.” he cut and would have sounded indifferent, if not for the flippancy in his words.

Another tick at Davos’s lips, another cruel spark of pleasure in his mind.

“Well, Lady Arya arrived safe and sound.Lady Brienne is preparing her departure and coming along with Ser Jaime.” continued Davos, his steely stance letting him know everything he needed.

While this wasn’t what originated Davos’s disapproval in the first place, the cause lost somewhere between the retaking of Winterfell and their journey to the North, this crystallized all of Davos’ anger. Because the man knew that what, for others stood seemingly as an attempt to protect the warrior that was still his little sister in all but name, was only a partial truth that hid dark undertones behind sweet affection. Because, the goal had not as much been to protect his sister as to put some distance between the omega that he called cousin and her sworn shield that had finally presented as an alpha. He remembered acutely the furious words of Davos when they discussed the matter. How virulently he had defended Lady Brienne’s honor. He’d been right. Yet, ever since he’d learned about his true parentage, ever since he’d been able to reflect back on the journey that had taken him from the grip of death to warming his aunt’s bed, he’d found himself a changed man.

A man who didn’t care much anymore for putting duty and honour above what whispered his instincts. After all, if he’d mated his sweet cousin that fateful day and listened to the truth revealed by their nature, how much of their suffering would have still happened? Would he have listened to her more rather than reject her advices because of his shame? Would she have confided in him about the help proposed by Littlefinger and would they have been able to save Rickon? Would he have been able to resist his aunt’s appeal when shame ate at him? The questions were never ending and would have tortured him endlessly if he hadn’t decided to take a page from Sansa’s book. Past was past, the only thing left was to learn from it. To be _smarter_.

And so, he would give free rein to his instincts if it meant that his mind wouldn’t torture itself about other alphas staking their claim on who he’d came to inwardly claim was his omega. No matter how hypocritical it was when himself graced Daenerys’ bed to cultivate her fondness of him. That, of course, was another point of contention with Davos, he knew. He looked to his steward. There was something else in that letter, he was sure.

“Good. And finally?” he asked.

Davos sighed as if obligated to relinquish something dear to him.

“Added to the message from Lady Sansa was a missive from the Vale.”

“Really? And what is this missive about?” replied Jon, already feeling a fiery possessiveness rising in him. Whatever help the Vale had given him and Sansa, he couldn’t help but distrust them. They’d always be tainted by Littlefinger’s treachery in his eyes and it wasn’t their brat of a Lord, who’d wanted to marry Sansa after destroying her snow castle, that would ever change his mind.

“They suggest that Lady Sansa would take refuge at the Eerie. They fear her safety at Winterfell is compromised with the Others having crossed the Wall. They want to formally extend their assurance that Sansa would be treated well as she’d always been in the past.” said Davos with a hint of contempt in his voice.

“So well that she’d rather go to Winterfell and marry into the family that killed her mother and brother than stay under their protection.” Jon scoffed. “And what does my dear cousin think of it?” he asked, knowing that if the memories of Ramsay hadn’t kept Sansa away from Winterfell, then no Other would.

“Lady Stark stated in her letter..” At that Davos took the message out of his pocket with a smirk and Jon knew that Sansa must have used double edged words in her response “that while she was deeply moved by the most gracious offer, Lords and Ladys had to be beacons of light for their people and as much as the Arryns were to lord over the moon door, her role and purpose was to stand on the battlements and face the foes that would rise against Winterfell.”

Jon chuckled and Davos smiled wryly in response.

“She has also written that if you could keep from adding to her response, she has good faith that rather than turning tail back to the Eerie in offence, the Vale’s envoy would endeavour to come and extend further their offer to guarantee her safety to the brother that heads her House..” Davos placed the message back in his pocket. “She finishes the letter with that she doesn’t want to presume on how you might consider the terms of how to guarantee her safety.”

“How many men does she say will accompany the Vale’s envoy?” asked Jon, knowing that if Sansa chose to elaborate, it was because she had a pretty little scheme in her head. He also chose carefully to ignore the taunt of him being her brother and the pique at his lack of diplomacy. While it let him know that the message was for Davos and not him, and how did this prickle at his pride,

“She didn’t say. However, knowing the Lady, I’m sure she’ll be most concerned over the safety of the envoy and would ensure that he would take as many as his men as possible for a trek towards the front.” replied Davos.

_And then, they’ll be ripe for the plucking and being added to our troops against the Night King_ , thought Jon with dark amusement. He looked over at Davos who smiled in return, knowing that the man had made the same calculations as he. How different their behaviour was from before.Yet, they weren’t the same men as those who went to beg for the Houses of the North’s support against Bolton. No, now there was no time for begging and coddling some cowardly lords. Every armed man that would come to the front, would be staying there until the living won or death took them all. The Vale’s envoy would have to do without his retinue on his return trip to the Eerie.

Davos, having given all the news they’d received, finally left and Jon decided to get to bed and try to catch on much needed sleep. Yet, as he settled on the top of the fur, he couldn’t help but dwell of Sansa’s words to the Lords of the Vale. Ah sweet Sansa, so like her to find fine words and delicate turns of phrase to gently rebuff the offending offer. He was sure that there had never been more ladylike bugger off in all the history of Westerosi diplomacy. He smiled to himself. Sansa was a lady through and through. She’d never anger their allies over their trifling concern when she could placate them and twist them further around her finger. No, she’d smile and thank and graciously demure as they would fall over themselves to please her. Such a true lady.

_Not much of a lady in your bed though_ , whispered a dark voice at the back of his mind. Unbidden came the image of her in her heat as they both pulled and thrust to find their peak. Their breath ragged and their skin slick. Her inner warmth slicker still as his cock had grown even harder and broader with the beginning of his knot. She’d trashed under him, her red hair damp and plastering against her throat like dark bloody rivulets, her long legs around his waist in a vise like grip. He grew hard as he recalled the undulation of her body, arching the small of her back at an erotic angle, straining her slim waist in pleasure or the sweet mewling sounds she made as his thrusts gained speed. He turned sharply on his bed, as his blood heated with images from the pleasure shared with his omega. Her head thrown back in ecstasy, offering the long expanse of her neck to his kisses and nips. At the time, he’d thought that the force with which he had to rein in his impulse to bite would leave him forever unhinged. Now, he couldn’t help himself but imagining what would have been if he’d put his mouth on her pulse point and gave her the mating kiss. Just thinking about the mark of his teeth on the unblemished skin of her neck, one of the few places that Ramsay hadn’t scarred with abuse, was enough to make him feel feverish with lust. He briefly considered taking himself in hand, but denied himself. For while he had no bother for how dishonourable he was being towards her, he would submit to one kindness and not use her memory for his own gratification. It was a meagre sacrifice, he knew, but at least there was that. Still resolute in this, despite his discomfort, he sprawled on his stomach, closed his eyes and focused on Ghost. Maybe a wolfdream would distract him enough to find some real sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I'm extremely late in posting this chapter. I actually a first version of the chapter that I wasn't quite satisfied with. So I started working on this version. Then I switched back, and so on so forth.   
> I'm not sure I'm quite satisfied with this chapter and it surely needs some further information to tie it in to the previous chapter.
> 
> I'll do it but I wanted to share this first before I changed my mind again.
> 
> Hope you like it.

_ A few weeks later... _

 

Sansa didn’t look up from her sewing as Arya entered her solar. Her sister didn’t knock and once upon a time, Sansa would have screamed and tattled to Mother. Even not so long ago, she would have tried and reached for anything that might constitute a shield to protect herself from her sibling’s possibly nefarious designs. Yet now, Sansa didn’t even raise an eyebrow at Arya’s lack of manners.  _ Planning an execution together, will do that. _ She thought.  _ Well, killing two men together, will do that _ , her mind added as she recalled Euron Greyjoy’s last attempt at taking Winterfell. The man in his delusional and desperate state of mind had thought that by abducting her and making her a salt wife, he would be able to claim the North. Fortunately, she hadn’t been alone when Greyjoy had finally got to her, Arya having taken upon herself to pick up Brienne’s duties. The fight had been gruesome between her sister and the berserk Ironborn and the victory claimed only because she’d been able to thrust herself between the madman and Arya, taking to her side the lethal blow aimed at her sister. Since then - and Arya desperate yelling at her not to die - their relationship had become closer than any of them could have wished for.

 

“You weren’t at dinner tonight.” said Arya without preambule.

 

“I wasn’t quite hungry and I needed the time for working on the dress.” she replied placidly, keeping her gaze focused on embroidering the little direwolves heads on the fabric. However, she didn’t need to raise her head to know that Arya would eye roll at her answer.

 

“It’s the fourth time this week.” was the clipped counter from Arya and amusingly enough, she sounded a bit like their mother did when forced to finagle for the answers she wanted.

 

Sansa smirked to herself. If her sister thought to intimidate her into the discussion she wanted to have, she really underestimated the lengths she had to go when dealing with Littlefinger. Again, she didn’t relent from her needlework and answered matter-of-factly.

 

“As you can see, this particular task does require a lot of work.”

 

Arya snorted beside her.

 

“Is that also why you don’t attend the preparatory meetings for the Council anymore?” she asked undeterred.

 

When Sansa looked up from the dress, Arya was looking at her knowingly and shrewdly. Yet, she knew that no matter how persistent Arya was, she had more patience and was more used to this game than her. Moreover, her little sister creepy ways didn’t unsettle her anymore, so really, she had all the advantage in that particular conversation.

 

“Isn’t it time for me to step back and let Davos assume his role as steward? It wouldn’t do for me to overstep on the King’s prerogatives.” she smirked back at her sister, her needle pausing in the air for at the end of the question.

 

Arya rolled her eyes and Sansa felt a bit gleeful that she could find a perfectly reasonable answer to all of her questions and started on another stitch.

 

“ _ Fine _ , fine. I’ll be direct, then. You’re avoiding him.” finally stated Arya, irritated.

 

“Am I? I didn’t know that his grace needed me present these times at all. Isn’t Ser Davos council good enough? Does he miss company at meal times? If so, I can only wonder how he did get by all these months when we were apart for more than a few yards. And yet, he managed to win a war and a crown in that time.” she said, not bothering sweetening her sarcasm.

 

Arya scoffed before jesting:

 

“Not before he first lost his crown and then a dragon.”

 

Sansa paused a bit in surprise. If there had been one thing that remained from the person Arya had been before they left Winterfell, it was her unwavering loyalty to Jon. She looked up at Arya and saw a gleeful smirk grace her features at managing to throw her a bit.  _ One point to Arya _ , she thought.  _ I didn’t see that coming _ .

 

“Well, I can admit that I wouldn’t have advocated for those choices, then.” Sansa replied gracefully while perfunctorily making another stitch.

 

“And what choices would you advocate now?” asked Arya, not missing a bit. 

 

Sansa had to hide her grimace at Arya’s bluntness. In all of her games with Littlefinger and other politicians, she could always rely on them circling around the point rather than aim directly at it. It made feinting around Arya’s straightforwardness quite difficult, letting her wonder if great swordsmen felt this awkward when forced to battle with their weak hand instead of their dominant. Deciding that any words she might uter wouldn’t serve her so well, she decided to remain silent. Sometime, retreat was smarter. If she’d hoped to quell Arya’s interrogation, she was sorely disappointed though, as her sister, changing tactics, came and sat next to her.

 

“Sansa, I know that you’re writing regularly to the Eerie. If I know, Jon will soon notice too.” she said softly.

 

Sansa pricked herself with her needle. This time, she couldn’t rein in her grimace as she took her pricked finger to her mouth and sucked the blood drop away.

 

“What are you planning? Do you want to leave us?” asked Arya looking in her eyes.

 

For a short moment, Sansa felt a flash of guilt.  _ Don’t die! Don’t die! I’ll go and kick your arse in the sevens hells, if you die!  _ Had first shouted Arya when she’d been struck by Euron Greyjoy.  However, as the blood puddle had kept growing underneath her, her sister had also finally broken into desperate sobbs of  _ Please, please Sansa, don’t leave us! Please _ …  She’d known since then that Arya, for all her tough exterior, was terrified of losing another member of their family. Sansa sighed. She hadn’t said anything to Arya about how she and Davos had come upon Jon and Daenerys lovers’ spat, not wanting to draw her in the mess of her and Jon’s relationship.

 

“I’m writing to the Eerie, yes, but it is absolutely unrelated to Jon, I promise you.” she tried to say as reassuring as she could, but the words felt hollow even to her ears. “I’m managing a diplomatic matter for Ser Davos, that’s all.” she tried again.

 

She could see doubt darkening her sibling’s features. She let Arya survey her face, knowing that she likely scrutinised every twitch to see if she was telling the truth. And she did tell the truth. Davos had entrusted her with keeping an eye on the situation in the Vale as he’d shared with her his concerns about the fraught situation between Harry the heir and Robin Arryn. Robin had grown but not matured, becoming a difficult lord to advise and Lord Hardyng was impatient and short sighted. Conflict between the two of them, especially at such a fragile time after the war, could easily ripple into another civil war. And the North, with its tight ties to the Vale would inevitably be engulfed in the flames of their fight.

 

“I might have to go to the Vale for a time.” Sansa blurted out, surprising herself in sharing this bit of information with her sister.

 

Arya stood up at once and looked down at her in betrayal.

 

“So, you do think about leaving us! Is Winterfell not enough for you anymore that you’d go to the Eerie and play the mockingbird?” she growled.

 

Sansa felt a sharp surge of anger at Arya’s accusation. She might know that her sister didn’t think the words she’d just uttered. That it was just her anger speaking. But she couldn’t help the slight she felt each time Arya would press on that particular point. Unfortunately, Arya’s tongue was as sharp as a dagger and she was much less proficient in using it than the small valyrian blade at her side. Sansa took a cleansing breath and reined in the impulse to snap back.

 

“If you want to know, I’d be going there to avoid Sweetrobin and Hardyng going into open conflict.” she said but couldn’t help the cutting edge of her tone.

 

Arya stopped in front of her and looked at her carefully. Sansa met her eyes and leveled her with the same flat stare she was given. Arya then smirked darkly at her and said:

 

“Hardyng is that alpha that came to Winterfell during the war, is he not?” said Arya, her eyes fixed on her but she didn’t wait for an answer. “You’re a fool if you think Jon will let you go. He’ll  _ never  _ let you go.” 

 

Sansa bristled at her confident and smug tone. Suddenly, all the resentment and feeling of betrayal she’d tried to bury was swelling and threatening to overwhelm her. Since Daenerys and Jon’s quarrell had revealed to her the truth of her own feelings, she’d had to fight tooth and nail against the rage she felt against her cousin, anytime she thought of him. Maybe, she could have dealt with the heartbreak of hearing him actually declaring that he’d deliberately gave the North and later on, his claim to the iron throne for his dragon queen’s love. Maybe, she could have just darned another destroyed piece of her soul at the shattering realisation that once again, she’d dressed another man who’d never love her in the shiny clothing of a knight. Just because a biological urge had drawn them together and she’d been left feeling more than him. She could have accepted that. And what if now her nights would be spent imagining him and his beautiful queen intertwined together, him loving her with a passion that had probably been artificially created during her own heat? She’d had worse nightmares, she’d had worse nights even - yet, there was a little voice in her head that whatever Ramsay had done to her, it hadn’t quite as much corroded her sanity as that empty feeling of jealousy anytime she caught the sight of Daenerys Targaryen. 

 

She bit hard on her lip. She couldn’t exactly tell all this to her sister. Since Littlefinger, she’d vowed never to let anything tear at the loyalty of their family. Certainly not some dissension created by her unrequited feelings. So, she forced herself back to her needlework and said:

 

“You’re blowing this out of proportion. I’m not a defenceless girl anymore and I know the Eerie well. Jon will see that I’m the best option as an ambassador.”

 

“And I tell you, that he’ll never let you out of his sight to go and intercede with an unmated alpha.” Arya replied acidly. “He’ll not risk another staking his claim.”

 

Sansa looked sharply at Arya then. She put aside her needlework and stood up before going to the fire, trying to fight against the icy anger threatening her.

 

“And what would it matter to him? What need would he have of me, here in Winterfell? I’m not the only one that can sort his business for him and he certainly doesn’t want me to warm his bed.” she replied.

 

Arya looked shocked, whether it was her ugly words or her vehemency, she didn’t know.  But her sister tilted her chin up, in that marked manner of her when she disagreed.

 

“He’s an alpha, he needs an omega. Daenerys is full Targaryen and they’ve never presented any breed disposition. Moreover, she’s is aunt” stated Arya coldly.

 

Sansa scoffed at that.

 

“His first love was an alpha wildling, so he doesn’t necessarily  _ need _ an omega. She’s is his aunt and yet, it doesn’t prevent him from laying with her does it?”

 

Arya didn’t like those arguments, obviously.

 

“You smell like him! You started the mating bond. You  _ know _ what that means, that he will claim you.” she finally blurted.

 

Sansa turned. She hadn’t thought anyone would notice really beside Brienne, once she’d presented, as she never lingered to close to any other alpha. Arya wasn’t even supposed to be able to, as she was only beta. Obviously, her training among the faceless men did account for more than one trick.

 

“Do I still? More important, does  _ he _ smell like me? Or didn’t you catch the clogging scent of her on his skin during the war, if not now?” she snarled, knowing full well that access to the springs meant easier removal of any telltale scents.

 

At this, Arya looked stricken and Sansa had to fight the lurch of her stomach at the knowledge that she’d been a fool for such a long time. That Jon would make time for passion even in the direst of times when all she’d been able to think about was at what price she’d be able to get the next wagon of grain. Bitterness flooded her suddenly and she turned from her sister, not wanting to see more pity from her. Porcelain turned to ivory turned to steel. But what steel could resist the burn of a bitter acid? 

 

At heart, she knew that she would have survived the heartbreak and come to forgive him and herself for her inane fantasies of a gentle, noble and strong warrior fighting for her. Yet, since that hateful overheard conversation, she’d been forced to swallow even more of the romance between the two dragons. The Queen now wore beautiful and sultry gowns of the softer gauze to catch her nephew’s gaze. She’d command and comment on the delicacy of the aphrodisiac foods she was so fond of. She also spent more time surveying the men training, fawning herself over Jon’s skill. Then, there was the most glaring sign of them having resolved their differences: Daenerys had abandoned her claim to the North and reverted it back to, in her own words, its  _ legitimate _ King. And for all the while of that inane little display of their affection, Jon had made sure that she, Sansa, would be there. He’d once had her discussing the merits of Northern garments versus Essos fashion with Daenerys and Missandei. Then, he dismissed any knowledge of specifically Northern aphrodisiac food, responding that filling and nourishing things such as pies or  _ lemoncakes  _ were enough for the more simple manners of the North. Worse, he’d even ask her to come and assess the training of the men, citing patching her lacking military knowledge as a reason for her presence, then would proceed to taunt men into fighting to impress her and then beat them bloody into the ground, all the while his precious silver lover would caw in awe. This, Sansa, could  _ not  _ forgive. She  _ knew _ he was doing it deliberately. At all moments, she could feel his gaze, dark and ungiving, on her. As if he was surveying exactly what was the impact of his actions. She wondered what he was waiting from her. Her support? Her blessing? Was he trying to prove to her that, eventually, his selfish act in giving everything to Daenerys in a fit of passion had no ill consequences? She didn’t know nor understood. But she burned with fury at what he was making her suffer through. 

 

“I’m sorry Sansa. I… I really thought…” said Arya softly behind her.

 

Sansa let her forehead connect with the edge of the chimney. It was hot, but not too much and the warmth was more comforting that it should have been.

 

“I know.” Sansa turned then to look at her sister, knowing that her eyes glinted hard with too many unshed tears turned to salt. “But I won’t let him make a fool of me anymore. He is my King, he is family, but that’s all of the claim I’ll permit of him over me.” she stated, making sure finality edged all of her words.

 

Arya nodded slowly at that, not only acknowledging her feelings but somewhat understanding them. Sansa wondered then, not for the first time, if her sister had lived a similar situation and made similar vows to herself. Yet, she didn’t linger too much on the thought. Her head throbbed with so many unearthed emotions and for once, she was tired enough that she knew sleep would catch her tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so first I want to apologise to everyone who commented and to whom I haven't yet come back to. I'll get there.
> 
> I'm currently on holidays but struggling with the flu so it takes more time than I like to write the story. I'm still hopeful that I'll be able to finish it by the end of holidays but well, let's not taunt the fates.
> 
> I know a lot of you absolutely hate Jon for his behaviour in this story. He does act as an asshole, I'm not going to argue, but he does have reasons for that. As I put it in my tags, he is much darker in this story than in the previous one. He is a paranoid man that would do anything to achieve his goal. That is why he is manipulating Daenerys rather than trying to negociate and reason with her and why he doesn't say anything about it to Sansa. So there is that.
> 
>  
> 
> This is why I've written another angsty chapter from Jon's POV. I hope it will soothe a bit those who thinks that he is getting it easy.

Jon looked up from the papers in front of him when Sansa arrived in his solar. Gods, she was so beautiful to him that it hurt his eyes and wound his heart. Every time he neared her, the urge to reach for her and tug her to him was ever more torturing. Never had he felt such a tantalising agony than being at her side, knowing she was hurting and not being able to do anything about it. He’d seen the dark shadows under her eyes since she’d surprised that conversation between him and Daenerys. He hadn’t been able to mask his ire then, a ire not directed at her but at the fates that seemed so intent into breaking them apart. He knew that she had taken it as rejection and yet, he’d kept mum about it. The need to reassure her and try to comfort her had been and was still fierce but he couldn’t. At least not overtly, his only means to convey his feelings to her, a display of favouring Northern attributes. Not that she seemed to notice but rather to be angered by it. Still, there was nothing more he could do. There were still a few days, less than a week for the official coronation to take place. Sure Daenerys had already declared him King in the North for all intent, but he knew that he needed to have it officialised and with the Northern Lords pledged to him before he could make his move. A pledge that proved difficult to secure as he was begrudgingly experiencing. 

 

“Your grace, you requested my presence?” 

 

She was composed as always, but her scent betrayed her. Ever since that fateful day, as attuned he was with her presence and scent, he’d been able to smell the sorrow and heartbreak she felt, tainting her glorious scent with something bitter and acid. Once again, he loathed himself for the fool he’d been, relinquishing her only protection into the hands of a versatile and prideful woman. If he hadn’t bent the knee nor bedded the dragon queen on a misguided impulse, she wouldn’t have to suffer so. He clenched his scarred hand. The overwhelming need to tell her everything tied his tongue, even if he knew they couldn’t afford it. No secrets ever stayed secret if you whispered them to someone else and he’d rather lose her forever than take the risk to ignite Daenerys’ jealousy. Even more now that the woman seemed intent in getting him back as a lover.

 

“Your grace?” asked again Sansa and Jon could see in her eyes the familiar vexed expression of her mother. Strangely, it didn’t irk him but made him think of how Ned would grasp his wife by the waist and cajole her into a better mood. He wanted to do the same.

 

“Sansa,” he replied instead and ignored her arching brow. She wanted him to address her by her title but he refused. She was Sansa to him and the only favour he’d do her was not to add “my” before her name. “As you know, I’m approaching some people to join my future council. Some were of course self-evident but I would need your advice for the rest of them.” he said, trying to soften the gruffness in his voice.

 

Her eyes flashed quickly and he knew that she was still offended that he’d not offered her any position at all. He knew it chaffed. But she wouldn’t do as any councilor. No, she could only be queen in his eyes. But such an offer had to wait until after his coronation.

 

“Wouldn’t one of your trusted advisor be of better council? “ she replied, her placid tone hiding her usual sark.

 

Even if he knew he deserved it, he hated the mask she now wore with him. Even when they both struggled with their shame over their shared heat, she’d still been pretty open with him. Now, well, now was quite different. For all he knew her scorn justified, it riled up the alpha in him and whenever he wasn’t reining in his urge to comfort her, he was holding a tight grip on his urge to answer her challenge. He looked at her and counted silently, until the wave of possessive irritation flowed back.

 

“You know the people more than Davos or Sam, have taken more interest in their lives than Arya or Tormund and are probably less biased than Lyanna Mormont. Not only are you clever but you understand politics much better than I. It’s your opinion I want.” he said pining her with his stare.

 

She discreetly rolled her eyes in that lady like way she always had when she found him particularly overbearing and he had to force back a smile. The last time she’d done this, they’d been arguing over some ruling she didn’t agree with. The discussion had turned heated as it always had when they butted heads and she’d reflexively grabbed at his arm. He still remembered the bolt of lightning from her contact and how during a few seconds he could only think about tugging her close and devouring her. The memory traveled his limb as a phantom touch and he looked back at his papers to hide his reaction. The silence stretched between them, a taut line that vibrated with all their unsaid thoughts. Finally, Sansa sighed and came to his side. 

 

“What are the seats that you’re still waiting to fill?”

 

He recounted them to her and they discussed his ideas for people to take the responsibility. Strangely as all the times they’d discussed ruling matters, the initial tension between them melted away as they worked together. He couldn’t help but relish those instants. Then she came to his side as he finished the list of names for small council. Her light scent wafted to him and he felt himself leaning toward her, almost imperceptibly. It wasn’t as rich as when she’d been in heat - and he had to violently shut the memory down from his mind or he would have reached for her - but it still held the enticing hints of heated sweetness under the fresh and lemony central note. He looked at her, her beautiful profile, her eyes focused into that intelligent expression that he came to associate with her political weaving and he was suddenly lost in the fantasy of their future life together. 

 

Then, she turned her head and caught him staring at her. Her eyes first widened with surprise before hardening in impenetrable frost, taking away the contentment he felt. Suddenly, he felt colder than he ever was beyond the wall, colder than he was in death. She distanced herself from him slowly but very purposefully, her eyes glinting hard with ice. It pierced him to the deepest of his soul and he had to resist the urge to drag her back to him so she could warm him up again.

 

“Now that I’ve done my duty. Would you let me take my leave, your grace?” her voice back in that cold and pleasant tone of hers. A tone that she’d used when addressing Littlefinger.

 

She was already moving for the door, not waiting for his dismissal, knowing that for all purposes, while she was the one leaving, she was the one dismissing him. Alpha’s longing flared into bright hot anger and he said:

 

“Davos told me about the Eerie.” he said, watching with satisfaction as she abruptly stopped.

 

She turned back to him and he recognised the look on her face. Stubbornness and irritation at seeing her plan discovered. Davos was a loyal steward and had kept him informed of the trouble at the Vale. It hadn’t been hard to decipher what or more precisely who hid behind his words of “a close eye is kept on it”. Once again, Sansa was the key. She’d been the one to bring the Vale to their side, she knew intrinsically the alliances and fault lines in its politics as well as she did those of the North. Of course Davos would have her monitor the situation. It was even a good plan, he had to give them that. Or he would have if not for the fact that it implied Sansa corresponding often and probably intimately with Lord Hardyng. An unmated alpha who during the battle of the Dawn had talked too enthusiastically about the Lady of Winterfell whenever he wasn’t bravely fighting for his men and own life or chasing after the furs of some spearwives. And now, he realised as he looked upon on Sansa’s face, the same man was seen has a possible escape if not an enjoyable prospect by his omega. He could feel himself almost growl at the idea. He got up from his place and stalked to her, not hiding for once, the fire in his eyes.

 

“After the coronation, I’ll send Davos to deal with Sweetyrobyn and Lord Hardyng. He has a good touch with children. I’m sure he’l pacify the situation. “ he said darkly.

 

She looked at him in betrayal and it hurt as much as it angered him. She was so clever. Why couldn’t she see that he was trying to mend his mistakes?

 

“He is your hand, you cannot send him away. I’ll be a much better ambassador, your grace.” she said a bit breathlessly and he hoped that his proximity was inspiring much different feelings than fear.

He looked into her eyes and felt himself irked at the spark of hope shining in them. A hope to be away from him. Suddenly, he felt cruel and vicious, much like the dragon blood that made half of his being. He couldn’t let her go. Not like that. And so he struck at her weakest point: her loyalty.

 

“And what would the Northern Lords think if I was to send away the Lady of Winterfell to the Vale again? What would they presume of the half-dragon bastard they’d have to call King?” he said dangerously low.

 

He saw the breath catch in her lungs, her eyes widening as her mind’s wheels started turning. A part of him felt a bit soothed that she hadn’t actively thought about it and felt indifferent to the unrest her departure would have caused. Yet, he needed her to relent, to confirm to him that leaving would be a mistake, even if just a political one. So he pressed his advantage.

 

“What would you advise me to do? What would be the course to adopt considering the distrust the Northern men bear me?” he asked.

 

She looked at him, her eyes roaming his face as if trying to decipher his intentions. She was tensed and he could fill the stillness of her in the air between them. Her face showed conflict and anguish. He resisted touching her, needing her to give her an answer. Finally, she closed her eyes and her face shuttered in a cold mask. When she opened back her eyes, they bore no expression at all. 

 

“You need the blood of the Starks at your side. You need our support.” she said blandly.

 

At the defeat slumping her eyes, he couldn’t help himself and let his hand grasp lightly her wrist. Once again, touching her felt like a bolt to his senses. At his touch, she shivered and her eyes raised once more to him. Feeling a ball in his throat, he had to swallow. His voice was hoarse as he replied.

 

“You.” he whispered. “I need you.” Her eyes widened and the emotions inside them made him want to close the distance between them. He had all his secrets on the tip of his tongue and felt himself on the verge of spilling them to her. A loud shriek in the air. Dragons. A warning from the Gods surely, he decided as reason made him back away from Sansa. He forced himself to blank his expression, to dismiss the animal instinct that drove him to her. Instead, he told in a composed voice:

 

“You’re the Lady of Winterfell. The North and the Vale take their cue from you. If you distance yourself, they will. And their independence will be lost.”

 

Her eyes flashed in an anger so potent, he could feel the heat of it from across the room. She showed her teeth in a way that made him want to grab her, drag her to the ground and mount her like a wolf until she howled with pleasure. He clenched his hands behind his back. 

 

“You have me such a key figure in your reign and yet, you give me no position at all in your council. I can only think that you’re flattering me.” she said. 

 

Yet, they both knew that she indeed had such power so he wasn’t mistaken at her pique about his nonsensical decision to keep her out of it.

 

“You have a position.” he replied to her, his voice taught and cold from the tight leash he kept on himself.

 

But Sansa didn’t relent, her ire still hot in her eyes even if her body and voice remained poised.

 

“I’m the Lady of Winterfell, your siege of power. What happens when you take a wife?” she replied, the bitterness hidden by a sugary, poisonous smile.

 

He could feel a small crack appear in his resolution not to tell her anything. He could let it slip, now, tell her than no woman would ever threaten her position, either in this walls or in his heart. That she would be the only queen he’d ever take at his side. Another shriek of Daenerys’ beasts and he knew he couldn’t. Not so close to their goal. So, he looked into her eyes and loathed himself at the blow he would be giving her. She met his eyes, her blue sky almost glowing with her anger and suddenly he couldn’t find in himself the courage to strike and keep his longing hidden anymore.

 

“Don’t you understand? There has only been one Queen that I wanted…” he finally admitted, his voice broken and low. 

 

He couldn’t look at her as he realised how weak he behaved. Even now, there could be one of Varys’ little birds hiding in the corners and waiting to report to their master.There could be a gossipy maid lingering behind the door who would like nothing better than share that bit of news with the man sharing her bed. There could be disgruntled guard that would see that opportunity to gain favour with the beautiful Mother of Dragons. Self-loathing ate at him. He was no better than Robb, worse than Ned, endangering everything by his inability to keep his scheming secret because he couldn’t resist seeking the approval of the woman he loved. It tasted bitter in his mouth. Finally, he looked up to her but instead of victory etched on her face, she was looking in complete dejection. He opened his mouth but before he could even utter a word she fled from the room.

 

He would have gone after her if Tyrion hadn’t entered the room at that moment. Even if they didn’t have a formal meeting scheduled, Jon knew he couldn’t just dismiss the hand of his aunt. While he didn’t know if the man had caught his confession to Sansa, he wasn’t enough of a fool to offend him if he did. So, he discussed with the man they called Imp and argued finer points of the future alliance between the North and the Iron Throne. It wasn’t until the end of the meeting, when Tyrion ended negotiations with a “Our queen will be glad”, that he realised why Sansa had reacted so negatively. As he saw the hand of the queen off, he couldn’t help but wonder if his misguided words were a blessing or a curse. For when he hadn’t risked his family and the North fate to a dragon’s wrath, he could almost hear the sneering cruel laugh of the gods at his destroying any remaining affections from the only woman he’d wanted for a mate. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope you liked this.
> 
> Now about Sansa,she's not a doormat. I know that some want her to act out against Jon, either by taking a lover or by explicitly rebelling. But, in my view, she's both to self-aware and politically savvy to do any of this.  
> I do personnally think that she wouldn't take a lover because it would make her feel cheap. Moreover, add to that her trust issues with men, not to talk but her deep wounds when it comes to intimacy (that on my fic, were overcome with Jon only because she was in an overwhelming heat and because he was gentle and careful with her), and she knows that giving her body to someone just to get some revenge would be a recipe for disaster. It hasn't much to do with Jon but more of the awareness and respect she has of her limits.  
> As for taking power from jon or destabilising his reign, Sansa is politically astute and she knows what would entail any support withdrawal from her part. She also knows that Jon is the best chance the North have for independence (as Daenerys would not accept anyone else on that throne). She also thinks he is a good ruler, even if she sometimes disagree with his decisions (or she wouldn't have supported him). She also is no Cersei. She won't let some of her personal disputes blend into the political field. So she will support Jon politically.  
> Does she means that she will not get back at Jon? No, it doesn't. She will get back at him but in a way that will show to anyone that her dispute is not political but quite personal.
> 
> And that will be in the next chapter!
> 
> On an aside note, I'm wondering if you'd like to read the chapter about when Sansa overhears Jon's and Dany's conversation? In my mind it's not as fluid as the chapter she discuss with Arya, which is why I didn't published it, but it's just sitting there and I'm like... maybe?


	4. Author's note

Sorry, sorry, this is not a new chapter. :(

However, this is a note to let you know that I posted the deleted chapter that I originally wrote instead of chapter 2 which deals with Sansa overhearing Jon's and Daenerys' conversation and Jon's manipulating Daenerys in giving him back the North.

This deleted chapter is called Feel the bond - deleted scene (I try to be quite on point).

As I reread this, I realised that it could be integrated in the story without too much of a redundancy and I might do that in the future.

On another note, I'll be away for the next three days (Christmas time within my family), so my access to the Internet might be spotty at best. So probably no update or answer to comment (sorry all, I love them all and will answer to each one of you very soon!) until Monday. But that also means more time to write, so there is that!

Happy Christmas/holidays to all of you!

Thank you so much for following the story!

Kay


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here is another chapter, as you can see the story is getting longer and longer. But hopefully we are more than at half of the story and issues are starting to solve themselves. 
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you enjoy this.

The time was relatively pleasant for a day in Winter. While the weather was still bittering cold with a few frigid gust of winds that made one’s face petrify in a ice mask, the sun was up and shining, lending a magical atmosphere with the snow glittering like small diamonds. Still it was so cold and Sansa was pleased that she had her furs to keep her warm. She looked on to the crowd as Daenerys droned on with her speech and wondered if it was fair to the small folk to keep them still for hours when they didn’t have as warm clothing as them. The Dragon Queen had insisted for the coronation to be done outside, where everyone could see, because a new King should not be the affair of just Lords but everyone. Her argument had its merits, Sansa had to admit, but was the symbol worth of having half the attendance freezing to death? On her left, she heard a small snore.  _ Arya _ . Her sister had never been keen on long ceremonies. But she couldn’t sleep now… How would that make them look?  Without turning her head, knowing that she, at least, needed to maintain decorum, she elbowed her sister in the flanks and was elbowed back in return.

 

“So boring. We killed the Night King, we are the heroes, what better King in the North than my nephew, the second dragon rider…. And on and on and on. Should we all freeze to death just so she can praise herself?” whispered Arya to her.

 

Sansa kept her serene facade and resisted rolling her eyes. Not that she disagreed with her sister, but because, even now, Arya had no patience when it came to highborn duties, which representation was one of. However, she well knew that recalling her of her duty would do nothing than stir some childhood resentment and their mother’s ghost. Instead, she decided to appeal to her family bond.

 

“Arya. That’s Jon’s coronation. Could you at least be quiet for him?” she whispered back with a hint of reproach.

 

“Pfff… If it was that. Didn’t you notice how miserable he looks as well?” Arya countered, forcing Sansa to look more closely to the brooding face of her former brother. His all demeanour was stony and if for most he would just look a regal but broody King, both her and Arya knew him enough to decipher the strain in his shoulders. Just like when they were younger and their mother made him stay three steps behind when they were receiving guests. Miserable, indeed.

 

“Look, now he’s going to turn his head and bite on his lips to hide a sigh.” said mischievously Arya.

 

And of course, Sansa saw Jon just do that. She had to bite her lips in turn to hide a giggle. She elbowed gently Arya once more to make her stop. Arya softly laughed and returned her elbow once more. Sansa felt herself on the verge of a full nervous out laugh. Then, Jon, seemingly alerted to their quiet squibbling, turned his eyes to them. Immediately, all mirth left her as she felt pierced by his grey eyes. Even now, after weeks of finally knowing where his heart lay, she couldn’t help the longing that would overwhelm whenever his eyes met hers. And then, the usual heartbreak would follow, knowing he wasn’t hers to love. She felt her breath catch in her lungs as the familiar pain started gathering in a dreadful ball in her stomach. Her eyes started to mist and she turned her head, avoiding Jon’s intense look.

 

“Are you sure that you want to do this?” asked Arya in subtones, seriousness replacing previous mischief.

 

Sansa closed her eyes briefly, as she recalled Arya’s uneasy look as she helped Sansa in putting the final strokes to her plan. Now Sansa knew why. By replaying the exact words she told before they played and killed Littlefinger, Arya conveyed her feelings that she was now betraying Jon. Not that they were. This was a more intimate vengeance. But it still brought in stark relief, that she, Sansa, did break her vow not to bring her siblings in the mess between her and Jon. Even if she knew that if she could have had anyone else helping her, she would have, it didn’t sit well with her. Yet, as she looked back to Jon as he nodded to Daenerys, she couldn’t help but feel her normally serene facade turn into a brittle smile.

 

“You know how whispers and rumours work. How long do you think before the Lords pressure Jon into marrying me? Or even Daenerys’ advisors? Should I then submit and do as if I’m not a second choice?” she answered, surprised at the bitterness in her voice. She took a breath before composing back her voice. “What would you do in my place?” she finally asked and used the opportunity of another cheer from the crowd to turn to her sister.

 

Arya’s face turned thoughtful and her gaze lingered on the crowd, before setting back on her.

 

“Well, I’ll bash his head that’s for sure.” she said with a smirk that Sansa was sure held a bit of sorrow. “But, yes my guess is that it wouldn’t do for you to try and beat the King of the North bloody. Especially as he would no doubt have you in the dirt first.” she finished with an amused smile.

 

Sansa felt a bit gobsmacked at Arya’s statement. But what made her blush was the ambiguity of her final words. Suddenly, she felt a shiver running up her spine at the idea of her going against Jon, of feeling his muscles and his lean body working as they struggled together. He’d always been handsome when he was training and fighting, his thoughtful and gentle exterior stripped raw to his fierce and feral alpha’s nature. The mere thought of him pushing her to the ground as he turned to her obsidian eyes full of need had her fidgeting a bit in sudden warmth.  _ He would have you in the dirt  _ whispered the omega part of her and conjured images of Jon harshly throwing her to the ground, kneeling behind her, pushing her skirt up, before entering in a single thrust. She could almost feel it in her mind, the blunt filling presence of his cock inside her, his rough grip across her chest to keep her anchored kneeling against him, his teeth on her neck sensitive cords as he rutted against her, his grunts and her panting breaths as they coupled like animals. The vivid surge of heat accompanying her mental imagery almost made her gasp and she had to refrain from shaking her head to dislodge the thoughts. Arya, next to her, chuckled a bit:

 

“Well, who would have thought that prim and proper Sansa wouldn’t be so opposed to such a base and violent behaviour?” 

 

Sansa could feel herself blush heavily, in embarrassment this time rather than lust. But she didn’t have time to answer as she caught the movement of the crowd and knew that now was the time for the procession of lords and bannermen to kneel to the King. She rose from her seat, making sure that her coat was snug tightly around her frame. She touched slightly the wolves clasp and making sure her voice rang loud and clear, said:

 

“May I speak, before we proceed?”

 

Daenerys and her advisors looked at her, surprise etched on their faces. Tyrion, in particular, had a peculiar somber expression, as if he was dreading what she would say. Jon, however, didn’t seem surprised at all. He just looked at her with his dark, brooding eyes, his expression inscrutable. She ignored him as well as the dragon queen’s retinue and advanced before them. After the obligatory curtsey, she turned dramatically to the audience and started speaking. 

 

“My people, today we’ve been given our indepence by Queen Daenerys. She gave us her own nephew, the man who rode dragons side by side with her into the Long Night, the hero who with her help slayed the Night King who would have killed us all.” she said, succinctly summarizing Daenerys discourse. She caught from the corner of her eye the satisfied smile of the queen and there was some bitter mirth in her knowing that her next words would be the last to please the woman. “And now, we have our own King, a Targaryen. A dragon.” she finished.

 

There were some whispers in the crowd and Sansa let the pause last for a bit. Master Wolkan had told her once when he’d been allowed to treat her during her time as Ramsay’s wife, that it was important first to have all the festering brought up to the surface to be cleaned before healing the wound. This was what she intended to do: bring to the surface the doubts, the fears and the rumours before killing all of them at once. She looked at Jon, who seemed frozen in place, his jaw clenched. Yet, he didn’t seem intent on interrupting her.  _ Good _ .

 

“We are the North. The North who doesn’t bend to outsiders, the North which has always, in one way or another been lead by a Northerner. We, from House Stark, we hear the whisper. We hear your doubts, we know your concerns. Some say that a dragon can never rule in Winterfell, not when a Stark remains.” Sansa said, knowing that the unrest would swell now. She hoped that there would be no arrow in her chest, no guards to come and arrest her. Truly, she hoped that Jon would let her say her piece. Not quite hoped, more gambled her life on it really. In front of her, Arya’s gaze was focused on the King and Queen. Sansa breathed a bit easier at seeing her sister’s sign to continue.

 

As voices and murmurs started getting louder and louder, she raised her hand. Immediately, everyone stopped talking. This was the true power of the Starks, she knew. The loyalty they inspired was that people would listen to them when they spoke.

 

“Here is what House Stark has to say about the man presented before us as King. To those who say he is the blood of the dragon, we answer that he is born of Lyanna Stark, shares the skin of a direwolf. To those who say that he is no better than a bastard son, we say that he’s been raised by Eddard Stark as our brother and a Stark in all but name. Some say that he’s not even half a Stark. To us he is a Stark  _ twice _ over.” she forced her voice to loud steel. This was a battlefield of sorts and this was the peak of the fight.

 

The silence was ominous as everyone stilled and absorbed the whiplash of the declaration. She hoped that Arya had the time to single out every Lord that had been dismayed by the turn in events, for them to be watched more closely if they would attempt treason.

 

“House Stark remembers. What we remember is that we will know no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark. Jon is that King.” she turned fully to Jon then and curtseyed dramatically before him. When she stood up and lifted her eyes, she saw Jon’s eyes drilling into her with a soulful gaze. She felt caught in a crossfire and almost froze as a maelstrom of emotion took her. But she tilted her chin, knowing she couldn’t let her forlorn feelings rule her head. She composed her voice before uttering her last statement.

 

“To Jon. The King in the North.” She announced, turning once more to the crowd.

 

The crowd replied back, chanting Jon’s name and title. She still felt his eyes drilling into her back but maintained her composure and brilliant smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, sorry but no revenge for now against Jon. It will come in the next chapter. We know that Arya is on in it but that it's all of Sansa's doing, so what will it be?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, so here is the showdown between Jon and Sansa!
> 
> Now that Sansa has made her political stance clear, she can go about and get back at Jon. I know this was a chapter a lot of you were looking for and I hope that it pleases you.   
> Now, to be honest, the original scene was so long that I had to separate it into two parts. So you'll see the first part with Sansa's message and very soon, I'll post the second part where we see Jon's reaction to it.
> 
> Also, it is implicit but in case it's not clear enough Tyrion is an alpha, neither Shae nor Daenerys are part of the Breed (ie people with A/B/O genetics). 
> 
> For this, I have actually researched a lot of medieval dresses to draw inspiration upon so here are the things I have drawn inspiration from for Sansa's attire:
> 
> Inspiration for Sansa’s dress: https://i.pinimg.com/736x/69/89/5a/69895a763616a070df847a55b2d9edf2.jpg  
> (instead of little yellow dots, I envision small direwolves heads).  
> Inspiration for the hairtsyle: https://i.pinimg.com/564x/11/76/b0/1176b0ef91afdf4eaf644a8def82e5f6.jpg  
> Inspiration for the choker: https://i.pinimg.com/236x/60/05/28/60052890a4601c7f4d4458293bf47864.jpg

Sansa had been pulled aside by one of the servants and was retelling him the final instructions for the feast, of how to place the different people who would soon enter the great hall. Everything and everyone had a time and place, Queen Daenerys, her retinue, Jon and members of his small council that weren’t representatives of the Northern Houses would enter first and sit at the High table, then the Dothrakis, Unsullied and Southron Lords would enter and take place at the tables on the side of the Queen. Finally, the Nothermen would enter as well as the Wildlings. It had been a long preparation and fraught with rearrangements and headaches-worthy conundrums. Seven hells, just finding a way for the Wildlings to acknowledge Jon as their King without having them to kneel as the other bannermen had been a problem keeping her up at night. At that time, she had envied Daenerys ‘breaking the wheel’ policy to have all her subjects bow to her no matter their ranks, origins or cultures. As she finished directing the servant to last preparations, she heard some shuffling from behind her. She turned and saw Lord Tyrion coming lazily toward her:

 

“My Lord” she acknowledged with a quick bow of her head, hoping that her polite but stern greeting would convey to him her business with the feast.

 

“Lady Sansa!” he replied cheerfully and she quickly surmised at his tone that unfortunately not. 

 

Tyrion smiled at her with that big fake smile of his. The one he used when playing the buffoon and it irked her more than it should have that he didn’t remember that she knew all his tricks. However, seeing that her face didn’t thaw at his antics, Tyrion changed tactics and the jovial demeanour dissipated, his face taking a shrewd and serious look.

 

“That was quite a speech that you made.” he said frankly.

 

As well as she knew her former husband, Sansa had to admit at being taken aback by this turn of behaviour.  _ Too much time spent with Littlefinger, _ she reflected,  _ I forgot that Tyrion’s preferred weapon is his imprevisibility.  _ But before she could find any soothing, diplomatic words to reply to him, he said:

 

“She’ll never forgive you, you know.” he stated seriously.

 

Immediately, Sansa felt on the defensive. And while she knew it was stupid to get riled up and challenge the dragon queen, even indirectly, she couldn’t help but bite back. 

 

“For what? Dismissing the relevance of her bloodline or ensuring Jon’s hold on the North?” she replied, folding back into the role of the sarcastic girl she used to be with Tyrion.

 

Her former husband looked at her with a glint in his eyes and she couldn’t exactly pinpoint if it was fond remembrance of days past or admiration that she’d ripped the seeds of sedition against Jon.

 

“Jon would always have the support of Daenerys. Was appeasing a few grumpy Lords worth her enmity?” he inquired, curious.

 

“Don’t play me for a fool, Daenerys might be keen on remaining willfully blind to the politics of the North, but not you and not Ser Jorah. As for enmity, what do I care when I’ll never leave the North again? She’s not my Queen.” she told truthfully.

 

Tyrion smirked at her assessment of the political situation and it just confirmed to her that he well knew that Daenerys’ speech would only fragilise Jon’s reign. The man wasn’t one of the best player of the game for nothing. If he could find a way to manoeuvre the North back into the fold of the Iron Throne, he would do it. Yet, when she thought he would talk more about politics, he surprised her once more:

 

“What a shame, there are so few unmated alphas in the North worthy of you.” he said, his eyes calmly and sadly moving over her form. Strangely the admiration in them overpowering the lust.

 

Sansa touched the clasp of her cloak, surprised as she was at the implicit declaration in Tyrion’s statement. Never had he shown any inclination toward her ever since his arrival at Winterfell. He’d always been sorely his queen’s man.

 

“We would have made a great team.” he added, a wistful smile on his lips.

 

Sansa felt herself harden at his words. Such paltry words of devotion to say And as she looked into his eyes, she realised that it was indeed the best he could offer. A partnership, an intellectual bond and friendship. She recalled the time they’d been married. Already a headstrong, sensual and unabashed woman had been between them. Not that she’d blamed him for Shae, on the contrary, she’d felt it a protection. Yet, now, a part of her longed for a true meeting of minds, bodies and souls. What Tyrion proposed to her wasn’t it. It didn’t mean that his truthful words didn’t rankle, though. As he said, there were so very few men that she could hope to find with the same bond as her parents had. What he was offering her might be the best she could hope for. Yet, she couldn’t help but hope for more. Was it really such a fanciful dream? Thwarted hope made her bitter and with all the stress and strain of the past few days, she couldn’t quite mask it so efficiently when she answered him.

 

“Would we have been a team at all? Your devotion is another’s, once more, even if this time she doesn’t have dark hair and eyes.” she said, knowing that her tone was cutting. “And I won’t be second to  _ her _ .” 

 

“Sansa… I didn’t mean…” said Tyrion taken aback at her vehemence but she was done letting men trampling her dreams.

 

“You should join the queen’s retinue, my Lord. Your entrance is set soon and timing in that sort of thing is key.” she cut politely, sliding back in her role of Lady of Winterfell. She didn’t have the time nor the energy to discuss his notions about his proposed partnership and she knew there was only a way to make him stop: wall him up from her with the most polite of behaviours.

 

Dismissed, Tyrion nodded gracefully and left. She refused to meet his long look as he walked away.

  
  


She was still reeling from that conversation as she waited with Brienne and Jaime. Both of them had refused to enter at the Southern Lords’ time, arguing that as sworn shields to the Starks daughters, they needed to stay with their charges. Arya had scoffed at them but Sansa couldn’t help but feel silently relieved. At least, she would never have to doubt their loyalties. They looked on to see Arya arrive, her hands clasped behind her back. Sansa knew that she’d gone to try and convince Bran from coming to the ceremony. However, their brother had made it quite clear his disinterest for all politics, his sole focus being his role as the Three-Eyed-Raven. Despite her own attempts, Sansa hadn’t been able to reach him, so she expected Arya to have been met with the same resolution.

 

Yet, she soon heard the wheels of his chair being advanced and her brother was wheeled into their small circle. He petted Ghost as the direwolf came and licked at his hand. Sansa was about to ask him what made him change her mind when Arya caught her eyes and tilted her head toward the file of Bannermen waiting for their entrance.  _ Oh _ , Sansa thought as she blinked in recognition,  _ Meera _ . The crannog woman who had been Bran’s companion during their journey behind the Wall. The woman who’d saved Bran and had to kill her own brother when escaping wights. The woman that Bran had seen would be his mate only to be lost to Littlefinger’s machinations if she had stayed at Winterfell. Sansa looked at her brother then, scrutinizing any sign of hope in his eyes. Yet, his eyes remained blank. She turned to rearrange the order of their own group when her eyes caught on a bit of soap behind her brother’s ear. So, despite his apparent nonchalance, he had asked for a trim? She lifted her eyes only to meet Arya’s mischievous ones. They both said nothing but the humour was shared nonetheless. 

 

The file of bannermen was rapidly diddling and soon it would be their turn. They all advanced toward the main door, Sansa in the front as the head of the House, Bran and Arya at her sides, Brienne and Jaime at their backs, Jaime having taken upon him to push Bran’s chair despite the challenge it presented with his missing hand. Ghost, instead of going away as was his habit whenever there was a crowd, set himself at the head of their group, just in front of Sansa. She smiled at the white direwolf, once again taking comfort in his presence.

 

There was a sign from one of the servant signalling their turn and Sansa started to walk. But Arya caught the end of her coat. She turned and Arya smiled at her before reaching to unclasp it. Sansa gasped as the coat fell open revealing the dress she’d slaved over for a fortnight. She’d thought to drop her coat once she’d been seated so as not to compromise her political stand with her personal one. So she felt gobsmacked that Arya would take upon herself to show it now. Before she could speak, Arya told her:

 

“Might not be a proper bashing on the head but at least, like this, he’ll feel like he’d been.” she said as she handed the coat to a bewildered servant.

 

She heard a low chuckle and a small swear and she turned to Brienne and Jaime. The Kingslayer looked at her and playfully said:

 

“I can definitely say that he’s not the only one that will feel bashed on the head.” his tone was gleeful as he elbowed a very red Brienne on the flank.

 

Brienne refused to meet her eyes and looked deliberately at her left. Sansa couldn’t help but feel a mirthful smile at her lips. If she’d been able to fluster her alpha sworn-shield, then that meant that her appearance did convey the right message. Already, she felt more confident. She stroke a bit of her dress, looking at the little silver direwolves heads painstakingly embroidered all over the dark blue cashmere wool of the dress. The almost black grey velvet at her waist marked dramatically her slim figure. But the true shock of the dress was the neckline. In a fit of frustration a few days after the official announcement of the North independence, she had torn apart the original inlay of fur she was known for and decided on a completely different style. Knowing that her scars will never let her emulate the plunging necklines that Daenerys had been so fond of, she’d kept the part over her cleavage quite modest and instead focused on revealing the smooth porcelain skin of her neck and shoulders, a smoothness accentuated by the soft dark grey velvet she lined the neckline with. Only once she had put the dress to her form to check on the effect had she realised what that neckline meant for an Omega such as her. Such a style had been traditionally used to signal that an Omega had presented and was such open to a mating and while it was no longer in trend, the message it sent was still easily recognisable.

 

Sansa remembered her shock at the realisation and how she’d almost returned to the original design. However, after the discussion she’d had to suffer where Northern fashion had been commented on as “practical” but “drab”, she’d decided to keep it in a petty revenge against the beautiful Queen. She might not have perfect, unblemished skin and gauzy silks but she knew that all Breed men will only need a look at her “modest” dress to be rendered speechless. As the memory flitted through her head, she tilted her chin up, savouring the effect that her dress would have. Of course, to emphasize the effect, she had made sure to keep the rest of her person as stern as possible. Her usually half-flowing hair had been braided back in a intricate updo mimicking a hairnet. It was a style that was favoured in the Riverlands and she’d taken pleasure in using that style reminding her that the blood of the Tullys was also flowing in her veins. The most austere piece however was the hard silver choker inlaid with beautiful grey diamonds that circled her neck. Not only did it bring a regal touch to her dress but it also conveyed its own message: “not yours to claim”. As an additional touch, she’d laced the key of the choker around her wrist, letting it dangle as charm over the dark velvet of her sleeves.

 

As a servant gestured to them once again, Sansa smiled to her sister, brother and sworn-shields. She then gestured to Ghost who opened their procession as they entered the Great Hall. Sansa held her head high as she advanced, ignoring the gasps and lustful gazes of the Alphas and some other Breeding ones. She kept marching, her brother and sister at her sides. When they finally arrived in front of the dais, she felt a little avenged as she saw Daenerys quizzical look at the audience and her while Tyrion audibly cliqued his mouth shut before swallowing. But what was priceless to her was the black eyes of Jon when he finally took her full look in. They were darker than she ever saw them, something raw and furious lurking in their depths. He clenched his right hand tight when she curtseyed, making sure to dip dramatically her long neck to his sight. And when she stood up, she made sure to smile her most triumphant smile at him before she made her way to the low table where the bannermen sat.

 

She didn’t turn as she felt his eyes drilling into her back, keeping her posture straight and her walk graceful. She knew there had been a moment when he looked at her when he’d remembered their shared heat. How he had licked and nipped at the column of her throat. And now, she’d made sure that he knew, he’d never have the chance again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So was it up to your expectations?  
> Anyway, I'll try and post the second part tonight and you can buckle up because Jon's reaction is going to be quite spectacular (considering his temperament). :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the second part, with a bit of Jaime flirting! I hope you like it.
> 
> As this scene consists mainly in a dance, I'm also linking the music I draw inspiration for this dance:  
>  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyknBTm_YyM.   
> While the title seems quite morbid, the music itself is quite upbeat and sensual at times making it perfectly danceable (in my opinion). It also provides some parts that are danced as a couple and other that could be danced in a “changing partner” style. Finally, I like the crescendo and it amuses me that it the tension during Sansa’s and Jon’s discussion could be reflected by the music.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!

A few hours later, the tables had been pushed farther to the side as musicians entered the hall. Servants had carefully swept any remnants of food or drinks from the floor so people could dance. After a stilted first dance between Daenerys and Jon, all during which, Jon had looked somber and shot her a few inscrutable glances, the Queen and King had returned to the high table and didn’t leave again. Despite several self-reprimands, she’d still surveyed the dais at some idle moments and always she’d been met with Jon’s dark eyes. Every time, she’d turned her head away, trying to ensconce herself in another conversation or keeping company to Arya as her sister looked closely at interactions between Meera and Bran. After a while, as neither of them seemed to thaw to each other, despite the joviality expressed by Howland Reed, Arya had shrugged in frustration and left the hall altogether. Sansa thus found herself, not quite alone as Jaime and Brienne were still there with her but without proper companionship. Brienne still couldn’t quite meet her gaze and Jaime had gone talking with his brother for a time. Eventually, she decided to look upon the dancing and had to refrain from sighing. This had been the moment she’d been the most looking for when she was a girl, and now she didn’t even know quite how she’d could bring back to life the carefree joy she’d felt about it.

 

“Would you like to dance my Lady?” whispered Jaime Lannister in her ear as she was pondering on her younger self dreams.

 

She blushed slightly. Not because of the words or the knight himself. Despite his obvious handsomeness, she’d never been considered the man as.. Well, as someone she could daydream about. No, what had her blushing was the idea that she would join all the people in the dancefloor and allow for them to graze and spin her. Unfortunately, she was pretty sure her boldness would only extent to taunting her cousin and King in a dress made to challenge any claim an alpha could lay on an omega. For all she’d revelled in the shock and appraisal she’d incited when she entered the room with her shoulders bared, except for the thick silver collar around her throat, the curious and lecherous gazes that many alphas and a few betas were levelling at her, eroded the barrier she’d maintained against her nightmares. Sure, she was still the best actress of them all, standing tall and confident as if she had not a care in the world. Yet, there was something about allowing the interested alphas the closeness of a dance that was a bit unsettling.

 

Jaime waited patiently next to her for an answer. She hesitated and was on the edge of declining when her eyes met Jon’s from across the room. His gaze was furious with a barely contained rage that made her want to bare her teeth at him. He shook his head at her as if knowing her sworn shield’s proposition. She felt herself straightening at his glowering. For all she’d decided she’d make her peace with his devotion for Daenerys, she couldn’t quite forgive him the way the long looks he kept sending her would make feelings flutter in her chest. Each time he would act a way that would raise her hopes like a fawn tittering on its feet. And then, there would always something that would make that little animal instinct down crash down in a miserable heap. What was worse, he looked now as if he was seeing her for the first time. As if suddenly, he was remembering that she was a compatible omega to his alpha and he gazed upon her as if any acknowledgement of another man from her was a challenge and a betrayal. She wanted to scoff at him, for his precious queen was still there next to him. Yet, maybe he wasn’t quite content anymore with a lover who would soon be leaving for King’s Landing and now, his omega cousin didn’t look so uninteresting to fill the soon to be lonely nights.  _ I won’t be second to her _ , replayed in her mind the conversation she’d had with Tyrion. No, she would never  _ ever _ let him think that he had a right of a claim on her. She turned to her sworn-shield then and smiled a bright smile at him.

 

“Yes, Ser Jaime, I’d really like that.” she answered and placed her hand in his.

 

Ignoring the deep frown from Jon as she stood up, she let herself be gently guided toward the dancefloor. As they took place, she realised that Jaime would have to overcompensate to make up for his lost dominant hand. Normally, Jaime wasn’t one to put himself in a position where his missing hand would be noticeable. Only under attack or… for an act of kindness toward a Stark, she realised as she recalled how he’d wheeled Bran into the room. She looked at the Knight and saw a bland smile on his lips.

 

“Ser Jaime, why would you ask me to dance?” she asked with a hint of suspicion in her voice.

 

Jaime’s smile turned rueful and for a split moment, she could almost feel herself swoon at his devil-may-care handsomeness. 

 

“Well, you needed a partner…” he said as they took their place among the dancing crowd.

 

The first strident notes of the strings instrument signalled the beginning of the dance. It was a traditional and popular tune, which had both square formations, round dances and more intimate couple parts. She’d learned it as a child and could still remember every steps of it. As Jaime guided her in her first spin, he told in her ear:

 

“And your King needs being prevented from killing any of his bannermen tonight…” 

 

Sansa could feel herself flush at the implication in Jaime’s words and when she faced him again she saw him chuckle. Unfortunately, the first part was a dance formation and the steps kept Jaime on her side and her facing another southern Lord. She couldn’t just try and resume their conversation or she’d not only be rude to her current partner but would also  reveal the details of what they were discussing. So she kept a crafted smile on her face, thankful that she didn’t have to be closer to the man in front of her who looked at her as if he wanted to whisk her away to a secluded corner. She was almost fuming when the dance returned her to Jaime’s arms. He kept her close to him as that part was danced in couples.

 

“You’re jesting. Or are you so careless with your own life?” she whispered to him as he maneuvered her through the steps, surprisingly graceful and adept despite his handicap. 

 

Jaime chuckled once more and she could feel it through her body as close as they were.

 

“Well, I’m not an alpha now, am I?” he replied and the playful tone sent shivers through her body. “Now, I think that the poor sods here might not all be that lucky.” he added as they separated for another bout of dance formation. As her mind kept pace with the music it suddenly washed over her that sometimes the next movement was danced as a sarabande pattern. She gulped as Jaime took her back in this arms and whispered:

 

“Ready?” the words were almost drowned by the strident accords signalling the beginning of the sarabande.

 

Jaime twirled her expertedly into another man’s arms. She felt soon swept away as she spinned from arms to arms, her breath taken away by the exertion as the pace was faster and as she needed sometimes to force a bit some of the men to release her to the next. However, she couldn’t deny that there was also a bit of breathless exhilaration coming with it as none of her partners could fully grab and trap her and that they had to relinquish their hold on her at some point. She couldn’t help but make the parallel with her own current personal situation. 

 

Finally, she found herself back with Jaime who smiled at her flushed cheeks and murmured “not that bad, was it?”. She couldn’t help but laugh, letting him guide her through the next more languid steps. As he returned her smile, she felt a bit of a itch at her neck and wondered for the first time, if she might have fallen for the golden knight if he’d showered her with that kind of attention before. Fortunately, she couldn’t wallow on such thoughts as they were back in a formation pattern. She felt herself relax, though, knowing that Jaime’s sure hand will still be there for the next slow movement. 

 

However, when the end of the movement came with a bang and she turned to the knight, she found herself staring instead at Jon’s dark eyes. He took her hand and hauled her up to him as he started the first steps. As she felt herself pressed against him, much closer than was appropriate, she felt herself submerged into his scent. However, as dark spice tickled her nose she felt a shiver crawling up her spine. Her body’s skin erupted in goosebump as it remembered when was the last time she caught a hint of that spice and she felt a pull deep in her womb. She recoiled but Jon kept her anchored to him as he guided her without missing a step. She felt the tell-tale needles at the tips of her fingers as his hands tightened their hold and warmth seeped through her clothes from his splayed palm at her back. So lost she was in the sensations that she almost jumped when his mouth came close to her ear and growled:

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” she shivered again as the vibrations travelled her skin.

 

But the words were enough to make her lift her head and meet his furious gaze. At once, her resolve strengthened as she remembered the slights he’d done her. Fighting against his hold to regain more acceptable distance between them, she smiled her blank smile at him and replied:

 

“Well, celebrating your coronation, your grace. Isn’t that obvious?” she sneered a bit on the last word, knowing that it would remind him the argument they’d had on the eve of the battle of the bastards.

 

His jaw clenched and she felt a slight tremor inside her at the contradictory instincts to either claw at that jaw or… lick it. She felt a warmth spread over her face and knew she was blushing. She mentally cursed and tried once again to put some distance between them. Jon resisted and when she looked up to argue against his hold, he let his eyes roam her face and shoulders, before resting on her lips. Her breath caught as she felt that leer as a caress on her skin and her lips twitched with the urge to lick. While she’d been used to his soulful stares, she’d never before felt  as potent a gaze as his in this moment. He smirked at her reaction and said in the close space between their faces.

 

“Sansa, you play a dangerous game. You know I have never taken well to your attempts at undermining me.” his voice was dark and rough but the tone was almost playful.

 

Sansa felt as if slapped at his mocking her. His smile had a cruel edge as if waiting for an occasion to bite and his hand at her back was keeping her in line for the dance as well as exerting dominance over her. She had to refrain from trashing against his hold as an untamed filly.

 

“Undermining you? When I have served you the North on a platter!” she scoffed at him, knowing that her eyes glittered with righteousness.

 

“Challenge, then. Don’t pretend you didn’t know exactly what this dress and necklace would signal to me.” he replied darkly in her ear, his nose nuzzling not so accidentally against her temple.

 

“Well, obviously I didn’t as you made your leanings quite clear. So maybe, this wasn’t a message to you but one for the unmated alphas in this room.” she lied with an assurance born of anger and thwarted desire.

 

Jon almost stopped in his tracks but bared his teeth at a man who thought it his chance for a dance with her. He resumed the steps but frowned when he saw that the movement was back in formation. Reluctantly, he released her but his eyes told her that if she tried and escaped, he would follow her. Sansa took a deep breath and smiled as she danced the small steps of the formation. Soon enough however, she was back in Jon’s arms and his hold was even tighter than before.

 

“You must want someone dead, then. Cause the only way for that is over my dead body.” he said showing her his teeth and she caught another whiff of that roasted and spicy scent of him.

 

She had to actively fight against her body mellowing at his dominance and the images of him fighting any challenger of his claim over her. She stiffened in anger and spat.

 

“You wouldn’t dare! You have no claim over me!”

 

He chuckled cruelly at that and growled back to her:

 

“I’m your King since you “served me my kingdom on a platter”. I’m the head of your family now that you’ve claimed me as a “Stark twice over”. So,  _ yes, _ I have a claim over you.”

 

Sansa felt her breath catch once more in her throat as she felt a deep betrayal at his using her actions and words back against her as justifications for his behaviour. Feeling tears of fury gather at her eyes, she succeeded in pushing him back, uncaring if it caused a scene.

 

“You might be my King, you might be my kin but that’s the whole extent of a claim that you’ll ever have!” she growled back at him.

 

Regaining his balance, Jon stalked toward her, ignoring the crowd that had stopped dancing and was now looking at them bewildered. He stopped just a few inches from her and let his voice get loud as he snarled back:

 

“Careful Sansa or do you want me to mate you right now in front of the whole seven kingdoms?” 

 

She felt her eyes widen at the lewd implication of his words. And as she met his feverish eyes, she knew he would do it. He would bend her over and take her as an animal in front of all the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms, biting into her shoulder if he had no access to her neck. That she wasn’t quite repulsed by the idea shook her even more. She took a step back in recoil but then caught his smile at her retreat. At once, all her rage, her fury and pain at his mistreatment of her boiled over. Enthused with rage, she slapped him.

 

She felt almost out of her body as she saw her palm impact his cheek, his whole face jerking sharply to the side with the force of her blow. Then, she felt herself back on her body. She saw all around her the flabbergasted faces of the guest and knew they’d caused quite a scene. She took a breath, trying to calm down her racing heart. And then, resolving that there was nothing she could do to salvage anything, she straightened, turned and briskly left the room.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, 
> 
> Sorry I know I'm very very late and left the story at a bit of cliffhanger. Fortunately, that long chapter will make up for a bit. I have had an insane beginning of the year in terms of workload and that chapter was very hard to write. I think I rewrote some parts at least thrice just to make sure the tone is right and that I'm going in the right direction in terms of emotions and reactions.
> 
> So, as a bit of a reminder, we had Sansa taunt everyone in her beautiful "omega" dress and a dance with Jaime that made Jon go a bit berserk at the edges (and quite bastardly too). Fortunately, Sansa, being that strong woman used to deal with arseholes (should we thank Joffrey for that?), she doesn't let himself get away with it. All of this ends with a slap (because Jon really deserved it). But what now?
> 
> Well, now, we get Jon POV. Jon, my own burnt cinnamon roll, who at this point is a bit frothing at the mouth to get to his mate after all the drama he had to play along with. And if Sansa is the queen of words, don't think for one instant that he won't give as hard as he gets if it means that Sansa will be his. :)
> 
> I hope you will enjoy this chapter. :)

As soon as the words went out of his mouth, he knew he’d gone too far. Sansa’s eyes widened and then slitted in anger, sparkling like sapphires in the sun. His mind shorted at the sight. His breath caught in his throat and another surge of heat rushed through his blood. Her scent had taken a tangy note and his mouth watered at the idea of tasting it on the wide expanse of skin revealed by her dress. Right then, his world was reduced to one thing only and it was how to have her writhing and mewling his name in ecstasy as soon as possible. The thought made him smile. He didn’t even see the blow coming.

 

His head reeled with the force of it, jerking sharply to the side, his beard barely softening the blow. As he heard the soft murmur of the crowd, he felt his head clear thanks to the sting. Then, amidst the ruffling of her skirts, her heels echoed on the ground as she left the room. He palmed his cheek, nursing the red mark of her hand while he processed everything. This wasn’t at all how he’d planned to reveal the truth of his feelings to her. No, after the beautiful and vibrant declaration she’d done on his behalf that afternoon - a declaration that would have made him fall in love with her all over again if he hadn’t been mad for her since the first time she’d called him Stark, he’d been dead set on a particular fantasy of his. He would have guided her aside as people started to dance and taken her to the Godswood. There, he would have her sat under the weirwood tree and he would have knelt at her feet, his sword pledged to her like in the songs she’d loved so much as a child. They would have kissed maybe or she would have made him prove himself first, but it would have been sweet and beautiful and everything she deserved after the ugliness she’d endured. That had been his plan. 

 

However, as soon as he’d seen her come in the Great Hall with her dress, he had felt as if his head would explode. The neckline had bared the creamy skin of her shoulders in a message that no half-blooded alpha could ignore. At the sight, the primal fire running through his veins had ignited faster and stronger than ever before. There was his omega, the beautiful milk colour of her skin in full display, tempting any man to come and mark her. Except for that harsh, unforgiving collar,which for all its dark glittering beauty, forbade the access to the sweetest point between her shoulder and neck. At first, it had been a shameful satisfaction to see the access to such an erotic place barred from the others’ view. Right until he met her eyes, brimming with challenge and petty revenge. He’d noticed then the glint of the key at her wrist and understood her meaning. “Not yours, _ never  _ yours.” Perhaps, if she’d shown hatred toward him before that, he’d have reacted differently. Maybe if her eyes hadn’t betrayed a wistful softness for the smallest of moments when she’d declared him her King, his instincts would have been drown out by his reason. But as she had acted as she did, the dissonance of her actions had been a lit match to the dried kindling of his soul. “ _ Mine! _ ” had roared his nature to what it couldn't interpret differently than a challenge. The time for her to bow her insanely gracious neck, he’d entered his rut. 

 

“Jon! What is the meaning of this ?!?” 

 

The shriek, not unlike one of her children, made Jon turn and look at the dragon queen. She was standing at the high table, her spine stiff and her eyes blazing. She was pretty when angry, he thought detachedly. However, all her beauty couldn’t compensate for the resentment he had for her.  _ Prove me that you don’t want my throne, prove to me that you’re still on my side _ , she’d come to his tent and asked the night when his true parentage had been revealed. She’d asked that of him, half-dressed in the light of glowing candles, despite the fact that he’d already renounced his claim, despite his turmoil over his identity. But, it hadn’t mattered to her, she had needed another type of reassurance in exchange for her support. He’d complied, therefore, and taken her to bed. Now, however,  _ now  _ he didn’t  _ need _ to comply, he thought with something akin to pettiness. He looked at her, his hand still massaging his cheek and then, with a last dismissing look he turned and followed after Sansa. Now, he could go and try to salvage the only thing that he’d ever wanted for himself.

  
  


He stomped to Sansa’s chamber and knocked once on the door, before entering. Nobody had stopped him, no guard, no man, not even her sworn shields. Surely at another time, he would be outraged on her behalf, for their claiming dance had all the appearances of a forceful pursuit. Yet, as he looked at Sansa spin on herself, her eyes bright and her jaw squared at the sound of his slamming the door shut behind him, he smirked appreciatively. Here she was, his mate, his sweet omega. His blood ringing in his ears, he let himself take a long breath at her scent, looking into her eyes all the while. Sweet, oh so sweet with that tartness that made him so thirsty for a taste of her. He smirked once more as her eyes narrowed at his vulgar display of his alpha nature. He didn’t, though, mistake the way her hand came to her shoulder, her fingers tracing unconsciously the soft skin of her collar bone. A skin, he longed to lick and bite until red blooms flowered on her skin, reminding him and her that she was his.

 

“Your Grace, I think I made my point perfectly clear in the Great Hall. I’m not going to be your pretty  _ prize _ .” she said, her eyes shooting daggers at him.

 

As for her voice… Her voice had taken that languid but steely quality of the anger she was trying to rein in. Right then, it reminded him of a night spent pouring over battle plans. Like tonight, the lilting light of candles had poorly masked a tension made of anger and denied lust. This time though, he wouldn’t let Sansa scoff at his plans and leave him behind, his vows and determination belittled.

 

“A prize? If anything I would have thought that the queenship would be your prize rather than mine.” he replied, knowing that he’d have to taunt her a bit more, otherwise she would consider propriety and order him out of her rooms.

 

“Queenship! Are you trying to make a fool of me? Or wasn’t it only one Queen that you ever wanted?” she gasped in outrage, throwing back his words at him.

 

“Exactly.” he growled back at her, his irritation at her stubborn misconception fed slowly but steadily by the heat of his rut.

 

She gaped at him then, voiceless for once. Yet, the naked surprise on her face stoked the embers of his anger even more. He knew it was irrational, for he had indeed played the besotted fool to Daenerys during the war. Yet, even since their return to Winterfell, he had been more distant until the orchestrated blown-out fight with the dragon queen. After that, surely a woman as intelligent as Sansa should have picked up on his scheme and true feelings. Except she  _ hadn’t _ . The clever lady tutored by Littlefinger, the student that had surpassed the master hadn’t believed it possible from him. Because she thought him a fool who didn’t listen to her. Because, in the end, she didn’t trust him. He moved toward her, letting his arms move around as his voice got louder:

 

“ _ You _ told me to be smarter!” he snapped loudly “You told me not to make the same mistakes than Father and Robb!” 

 

Her eyes flitted a bit away in startled fear and Jon forced his voice down. However angry he might be at her, he never wanted to make her scared of him. Never. 

 

“So I didn’t.” he said, his voice a quiet, resentful mumble. “I didn’t underestimate a woman’s fear for her claim and I didn’t refuse her alliance sealed in a bed. I played the game just like you’ve always urged me to and I’ve regained our crown and agency. And now... Now, we can be together.” 

 

If for a second her face betrayed a bit of understanding, it soon hardened as her eyes shuttered in angry disgust.

 

“Yes, it worked out quite conveniently for you, didn’t it?” she said, her sweet tone laced with venom. “Almost worthy of a song, isn’t it? How the bastard hero gets revealed as a trueborn prince, receives the crown and the dutiful woman who had the claim to it, the only sacrifice for which having to enjoy the bed of the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms!”

 

“You make it sound like I did all of this just for me.” he said, irritation flaring at her mocking description of his plan.

 

“Isn’t it, though?  _ You _ are the King! You! When if it wasn’t for me, you’d be wandering in Essos and everyone in Westeros would be dead and soulless slaves to the Night King!” she retorted, her cheeks flaming and her chest heaving with anger. “And what do I get? To wait at your pleasure for any scrap of recognition!”

 

“I did it for us, woman! I did it so  _ we _ could reign! You and I, side by side.” he said widely gesturing between the two of them.

 

“You think you’re the first one to offer me a crown? You think you’re the first one to try and sell me his dream of reigning with me at his side?” she shrieked, her eyes blazing with furious lightning.

 

His heart stopped for a second at that. A flash of a sly smirk and intelligent grey-green eyes in his head.  _ Littlefinger _ . Of course that traitorous cunt would have tried and turned her against him with whispers of power. Worse, he realised, it probably wasn’t a trick but really his endgame the whole time.  _ I love Sansa _ ...He could feel his stomach churn at the memory of the vile man’s declaration. He would have killed him then if could, but he had needed to leave. And thus, he had let the man go and whisper odious things in Sansa’s ear so she would betray her family, so she would betray him. He might not have succeeded in that, but how much of the snake’s whispering had skewered her view of him?

 

“Are you comparing me to  _ him _ ? To  _ Littlefinger _ ?” he growled at her, his eyes challenging her to ascertain her comparison with the cunt that had sold her to the Boltons

 

“Is it my fault that you treat me like a pawn in your little scheme and when I get hurt, claim that it was all for me anyway? Is it my fault that you act  _ just _ like him?” she answered colder than ice and sharper than dragon glass.

 

The blow was potent enough to stop the breath in his chest. The way she described it, it didn’t look that different, did it? Except it was, he reflected as he remembered the smirking of the man. Littlefinger had always been careful to always have others bear the consequences of his miscalculations. Jon, for all of his mistakes, thought that as for himself, he’d always gone to own and make up for his errors.

 

“Well, unlike your dear mentor, I, at least chose to whore myself out rather than you.” he spat, bitterness and rekindled jealousy making him careless with his words.

 

“Should I feel sorry for you? Afterall, what man would refuse to labour such a sweet way to gain a crown?” she retorted, her eyes glittering with fury, her chest heaving with laboured breath and only his inflamed aggression prevented his eyes to stay glued to it.

 

“Should I take it that you’d have liked to labour so  _ sweetly _ under Littlefinger? Because it surely seems like a crown has been your focus all along.” he said, marching to her until only a few inches remained between them.

 

“Is it? And yet, that crown is on your head and I refuse your equally  _ sweet _ offer. Logically, it should tell you something of our respective priorities.” she commented snidely.

 

“You think that I care about that fucking crown?” he yelled, refusing to acknowledge the flaw in his reasoning.

 

“Can one really accept twice a crown without wanting it? Especially when there are other around that could as easily claim it as true borns?” she asked, pouring acid with every one of her words “I would think that my mother was right and that this crown is the way for you to get everything that my father always denied you: a lordship, Winterfell, the Stark name…” she enumerated, her face every bit as scornful as Lady Catelyn’s.

 

In that instant, he could see all the fears that Lady Stark envisioned whenever she had looked at him. The fear that a bastard might steal her true born children’s rights. And she hadn’t been wrong, had she? Except the only thing he’d ever truly desired had been a crime more unfathomable than even she could have imagined. Because he would have stopped at nothing if it meant that Sansa chose to be his. And he  _ hadn’t _ . He had taken everything from her, only so she would be free to choose him, to claim him as hers.

 

“You! It was my way to  _ you _ !” he finally roared, guilt, anger and lust finally melting together in a  heap of fire.

 

She stopped, her breaths still heavy in the sudden silence, her eyes so wide with shock that she would have looked ridiculously like a fish if he wasn’t so in love with her. She opened her mouth and he knew he couldn’t let her speak or she would find ways to twist his meaning. So he crossed the few last steps that she’d managed to get between them and growled.

 

“You’re right, I took your claim from you. Not because I wanted that claim but because I wanted  _ you _ .”

 

She swallowed at his words, a blush appearing on her cheeks, her scent tinging with something warm, something he recognised from the only time they’d been together carnally. He felt his hand hitch with the desire to touch her, to close on her and haul him to his chest. He harshly refrained his impulse, clenching his hand into a fist at his side. Meanwhile, calculation reentered her eyes and she whispered, her voice croaking slightly:

 

“No, it’s not… The crown...” her eyes flitting to the steel and silver, wolf adorned circlet on his head.

 

At her weak attempt at deflection of his words, he felt the heat surge once more. 

 

“Still that fucking crown! Here’s what I think about the crown!” he shouted again. He seized the circlet on his head in fury and threw it to the side, not looking where it landed. 

 

She took a step back and he was at once reminded how she disliked any violent gestures. He closed his eyes, trying to rein in the flow of emotions coursing his veins. His head was mad at her for her stubbornness, his heart desperately angry at her obvious resentment of him, and his body, well, his body wanted only one thing and each passing minute it didn’t get it, he was closer to unravelling into madness. Yet, that madness seemed to bring a sudden clarity to everything. He realised that ironically, his hard schemed for title was now an obstacle to any bond with his omega. She would always doubt his intentions as long as he was King. He reached a rash but inevitable decision and after a few breaths, pinching the bridge of his nose, he pushed slowly reasonable words out of his mouth:

 

“I’ll have Davos draw the papers of my abdication in the morning. You’re already my heir, so it will be resolved quite easily.” He opened his eyes on his last sentence and met her gaze.

 

Sansa was still like a statue, so still that he thought for a time that he’d mumbled so low that she didn’t catch his words. He opened his mouth to call her name, and prepared himself to repeat everything when suddenly she launched herself at him. Gripping his neck between her hands, she moved his face until she could put her mouth upon his. It wasn’t a chaste kiss.  _ Not such a lady _ … No, he’d been right. When it came to this, Sansa was all unbridled passion and he felt himself immediately harden as she bit his lips open and licked into his mouth furiously. He hugged her tighter against him, planting kisses and nips on her jaw before taking her mouth once more. His hands, trembled as they tightened around her nape and the small of her back, so drunk he was on the fire coursing in his vein. That close, the divine scent of her engulfed him and he couldn’t help nosing against her temple, under her ear, as if he could inhale her that way. She moaned and he squeezed her against him at the sound. Her hands came to his waist and divested him of his sword, making him grasp her jaw into his hands to kiss her even more fiercely. There, the harsh metal of her necklace bit into his fingers and he was reminded of that final obstacle in the way of their mating. Sansa, unaware, nibbled on his jaw with sweet little sighs, and the not so gentle scraping of her teeth caused another surge of blood to go to his groin. His mind was on the verge of devolving into feral mode and he couldn’t help a groan of pleased pain at one of her more vicious little bites:

 

“Sansa… Seven hells… Sansa, take out the collar.” he growled

 

She didn’t stop her furious aggression of kisses and nips and her nails bit harder into his scalp. Then, between two kisses,  she sighed more than said:

 

“No.”

 

So sweet and sensual she was against him that the word didn’t register at first. Her hands kept roaming on his shoulders, petting and caressing, each stroke more daring than the last. He tugged her as he stepped back to the bed and sat heavily on it. Sansa resisted his hold and stood before him, her eyes dark as night as he was seated on the edge of her bed. His breath caught at her beauty. Her hands on his shoulders, her thumbs still stroking around the edge of his jerkin, she stepped slowly between his spread knees. That bit of remaining distance was enough though, for his mind to catch up with her words. Unable to make sense of her refusal, he repeated himself,  his voice horse with the gravel of his shattered mind and his lips trying for a kiss on the wrist around which was tied the key of the necklace. She retrieved her hand swiftly and he looked at her bemused. Her eyes glittered like thousands suns.

 

“No.” This time, the words were weighted with steel.

 

Before he could answer, she swooped down and sat on his lap. Her lips took his mouth and he grunted as her weight settled right on his groin. His hands proceeded without his assent to deal with her skirts and increase the contact between them. Soon enough, the skirts were pushed aside and he felt against his palms the soft - so  _ soft _ \- skin above her stockings. He thrust in a knee-jerk reaction as she let out a loud, drawn-out mewl. She ground her cunt against his erection and his head filled with white noise, his fingers creeping on their own accords toward the hot, sweet place between her legs.

 

“So wet… You’re drenched, sweet girl” his voice was pained, his desire an open wound that bled him dry from all thoughts except his mate. “Sansa…” he started knowing to have her get rid of the collar. 

 

She whined as she rocked against him, sweet sighs and moans escaping her throat.

 

“No.” she repeated breathlessly. “No.”

 

Such a challenge couldn’t stay unanswered. His omega’s submission becoming at once as urgent a focus as his baser need. He flipped them, his arms coming around to frame her face on the soft mattress. He kept thrusting against her, loving how it made her arch against him. He clenched his hands as he resisted the urge to tear her dress from her so they could at last be skin to skin. Instead, he looked deep into her eyes and let one hand wind around her collar. 

 

“Sansa…” He snarled “Take out the collar.”

 

She shook her head in denial and he viciously snapped his hips against hers. She moaned and tightened her legs around his waist, leaving his mind almost empty save the rage of his rut. Already his reason started waning, his body’s demands ravenous and wild as untamed fire. As his cock hardened further thanks to the molten rub of her drenched smallclothes on his breeches, he started to bite and suck at her skin, everywhere except that sweet morsel that she still denied him. Soon, however, he knew, he would be inside her, once again feeling her around him. All that time, he had remembered vividly the delicate grip of her cunt around his cock. More than once, he had woken up in the middle of the night, Sansa’s name on his lips, the phantom sensation making him shudder as he found himself needing to clean himself from the last of his ecstasy. Now, they would share one more time the glorious experience of a rut, the memory of her tight clenching around his knot driving him to rock roughly against her and nuzzling at her temple to get more of her sweet scent. Yet, as he took another lungful of her scent, he froze as he noticed something missing. She wasn’t in heat, he recognised. Despite the sharp scent of her arousal, the wild spice that he remembered from their shared time together was absent. At first, the urge to take his pleasure remained overwhelming, especially as Sansa still writhed under him as he had dreamed so many times before.  _ I will hurt her _ , came the concerned thought though, as he knew that a knot could be accommodated by an omega only during shared heats or after a mating… He recoiled sharply, the idea of hurting her anathema to him, and sat on his knees, putting enough distance to reclaim control over his urges. His chest heaving deeply with lust, he looked back at a dazed Sansa, trying to get his hoarse voice to word out his instinctual need to protect and claim her.

 

“Sansa, your collar... “ he started roughly, he shook his head trying to clear his head from the sumptuous vision she made. “I need to claim you.”

 

Her eyes shuttered though, as soon as his words were out of his mouth. “No”, she replied once more as she sat up and extended her arm to grasp his neck. Knowing that if she was to kiss him again, he would surrender to his lust, he intercepted her hand, lacing their fingers together as he lowered their hands on his lap.

 

“We can’t… We can’t do this if I don’t claim you.” he breathed once more, his eyes unglueing with difficulty from the pulse at her jaw to meet her dilated eyes.

 

“NO.” she whispered fiercely, her gaze duelling with his in a way that made him want to pounce on her like a famished wolf. “You’ll have me on my terms or not at all.”

 

Her hair was wild around her face, her eyes blazing with challenge and her lips pursed in that defiant tilt, all of it very far from her calm mask of the lady of Winterfell and all Sansa.  _ His  _ Sansa, all wolf and steel and summer intertwined. He leaned surreptitiously to her, their hands still entangled. Yet, as her breath caressed his lips, his concerned nature reminded him of the risks. Never, he would  _ never _ hurt her. He snarled in denied lust as he tore himself away from her, pushing from the bed. He looked at her one more time, trying to see if she would relent. However, she tilted her chin high, the defiant gesture letting him know she wouldn’t change her mind. As a result, he bent sharply to retrieve Longclaw from the ground where it had been discarded. Swiftly, not affording himself another look else he would surrender to his dangerous lust, he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So did you like it? Do we forgive Jon, or is he beyond redemption?
> 
> As for the next chapter, OK, I'm not going to lie, I'm very slow at writing the chapters (this one took me a full week of my holidays to get through), so I'm not sure when I'll be able to update the next. I'll try to get to it as soon as I can.


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